Here I am again. Sitting on my bed scrolling through my phone, rereading all the messages you have texted me. All those promises you have said and all those nights we would stay awake, and keep each other company.
But just like how they say, Promises are meant to be broken, but I hoped that maybe our case was different. But there was this "Maybe". It didn't tell me right away if it was going to be different or not. I needed to see for myself, and in the end I always hurt. I prefer to be the hurt one, then to be the one to cause the pain.
I reread a specific text over and over, that text fits what's happening so well.
The text read: "You were poetry on someone's lips who didn't appreciate literature."
Why does it applies so well now?
Maybe I was indeed a poetry on your lips, to bad you weren't fond of literature. You didn't hate it. You despised it. You just wanted to try something new, something different, to bad you don't coop with difference well.
You were art and I was poetry.
You were to complicated to understand.
While I was to easy to read.
They say opposites attracts, but that doesn't mean they fall in love.
YOU ARE READING
When depression hits.
PoesíaA book full of my thoughts whenever depression would hit me like a brick. If you're interested into reading just know that I'm putting my whole heart for you to read.
